


Who is the Lamb, and Who is the Knife?

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: But with a lot of love, Canon Universe, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed - Sorta, Pneumonia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: After battling the legendary Army of the Dead, Arthur falls ill even as he and his depleted troops celebrate their hard won victory. Instead of taking it easy to speed his recovery, Arthur insists on pursuing his duties until his illness becomes too serious for even him to ignore.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 222
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 10





	Who is the Lamb, and Who is the Knife?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “Pneumonia” square on my hurt/comfort bingo card. Title from Florence and the Machine’s “Raise it Up (Rabbit Heart)”. HUGE thanks to Aoigensou and Devon for beta-reading and catching my hideous typos! Any remaining mistakes are mine, all mine.

Ignoring the sharp pain behind his forehead, Arthur forced himself to stand proud, chin high, while he inspected his beleaguered knights. Although Camelot had been victorious, the cost had been high and the war had drained their numbers. No doubt his knights, too were feeling the same fatigue and grief that now dulled Arthur’s senses and made his limbs feel like lead. Maybe others among them felt an ominous tickle in their noses and shivers tiptoeing up and down their spines. If so, he knew that they would not let it show, either. 

Truth be told, Arthur had felt the encroachment of this ague before the battle had even begun. The heat of the battle had helped him to stave it off for a few hours, but now that his blood had settled down it was coming back. Crippling waves of pain and fatigue washed over him, but he refused to sway or let his eyelids droop. Rest could wait. Arthur had an important job to do. 

“Let us honour the fallen and praise the living!” he cried into the silence, in a voice that sounded deeper than usual and slightly nasal. He lifted Excalibur high. “For Camelot!”

“For Camelot!” Although they were few (too few!) and the echoing cry was tentative at first, it swelled to a roar with his encouragement, as he had known it would. “For Camelot!”

They subsided again when he signalled by sheathing his sword that they should hush. 

“You have all shown great courage today and will all be rewarded. But first I must honour those of you who showed outstanding bravery. Sir Percival, Sir Gwaine and Sir Elyan, step forward.” 

A great cheer rang around the parade ground, for all three men were immensely popular. 

“These three men stood with me and protected my back from the army of the dead, never giving up even when all seemed lost.” 

In fact, four men had stood with Arthur. The fourth, despite being unarmed and untrained, had also faced the enemy with characteristic stubbornness, but with equal tenacity had refused to be included in this ceremony.

“I’m no knight,” Merlin had earlier said when Arthur offered to shower him with the honour that he deserved. “What use have I for medals? Just give me a day off, for once, dollophead.” 

“You can’t address me like that, _Mer_lin.”

“I believe I just did, _my Lord._”

“Insolent peasant.” Grateful for the semblance of normality afforded by this exchange, which had allowed him to gloss over the dark circles under Merlin’s eyes and the pallor that betrayed Merlin’s own fatigue, Arthur had smiled and cuffed his manservant as if they had just returned from a successful hunt rather than a deadly and gruesome battle. 

But although Merlin had rejected military honours, Arthur could still feel the warmth of Merlin’s presence behind him, a lifeline of ordinariness that anchored Arthur to his people and silently reminded him of his duty to protect them. It was as much for them as for his knights that he should put aside his physical discomfort and focus on the moment. 

There would be time later to take tinctures to calm his breathing and help him to sleep, but for now he could not let a small thing like an encroaching head cold prevent him from acting as his people needed their king to do. For now, he would smile and nod and bestow the grace of royalty on the valiant. It was his duty. 

He turned away from Sir Percival for a moment, feeling a sneeze build. He let it out as quietly as he could behind one gauntleted hand, but the movement made pain shoot through his head. He thought he had managed to disguise the way this made him wince until he caught Merlin’s eye. Merlin as usual was hovering at Arthur’s left elbow, ready to provide any assistance needed.

“Sire?” Merlin stepped forward.

Frowning, Arthur rejected the proffered handkerchief with a brief shake of his head, although his eyes were watering. Instead, he blinked away the moisture, took the medal that lay on a cushion that Geoffrey was holding for him, and reached up to drape it around Percival’s bent head.

He drew in a breath and looked around at the assembled group. (Too few of them, and many with bandages that betrayed their own discomforts). 

“For valour,” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster. “Sir Percival, you have shown great and exceptional bravery. I honour you with the crest of the Pendragon family. For valour!” 

“For valour,” replied the throng in a resounding cry that echoed through his ribs. They lifted their weapons as he had. "For valour!"

Arthur nodded, face serious as he turned to Gwaine. His men deserved to be honoured. Just let him get through this parade unscathed. Perhaps he would be able to escape early from the victory feast and speech, and retreat to his chambers with a hot drink. 

***

During the feast, Arthur toyed with his food, pushing it around his plate with a listless sweep of his fork. An oppressive headache settled on him and his legs ached more than they should after the brutal but short battle. He longed to leave, but instead contented himself with massaging away the pain behind the bridge of his nose and sipping at watered down wine to soothe the sudden fire building in his throat. 

When he finally retired to his rooms, Merlin fussed around him like a mother hen. 

“I knew you were feeling off, you pigheaded goat,” he grumbled once Arthur was finally settled beneath the covers of his hastily-warmed bed. “What were you thinking, fighting in the rain like that? You have all the sense of a flea.” 

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur rasped. His throat felt as if something was blocking it and a spasm of coughing wracked him that went on for so long that by the end of it his eyes were watering. 

When he stopped, Merlin’s hand rested cool on his forehead and a worried pair of blue eyes peered down at Arthur. “God. You’re burning up. I should get Gaius.” Merlin turned as if intending to walk over towards the door. 

Arthur grabbed his wrist to prevent him. “No. I forbid it. Gaius is tending my injured knights. You will not distract him, and that’s an order.” 

“You cantankerous, self-sacrificing clotpole,” grumbled Merlin. “You’re no good to Camelot dead! What use are all the knights in Camelot if--”

“Stop complaining,” interrupted Arthur. “You will tend me. Here. Bring me…” he coughed again, sucking painful breaths in between each spasm. His rib cage ached and a sudden pain shot through his abdomen, making him bend double. “What is that tincture Gaius always makes for me?” 

“Hot honey, lemon and willowbark.” A line of worry appeared between Merlin’s brows. “With a drop of the water of life that the Picts brew north of the wall, if Gaius has any left.” 

“Yes,” whispered Arthur, lifting a hand to his throbbing head while he shivered under the weight of his counterpane. “Bring me some of that. And warm this counterpane for me. It is damnably cold in here.” 

“No, it’s not. You have an ague, which makes you feel as if you are cold, but actually your body is too hot.” 

“Of course it’s cold. I know what cold feels like. I’m shivering, Merlin.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes and walked away for a moment. When he returned, it was to place something cool and soothing against Arthur’s forehead. A gentle hand smoothed a lock of hair away from Arthur’s face. 

“In all my days I have never met anyone as stubborn, wilful and infuriating as you, Arthur Pendragon.” Lifting Arthur’s hand from where it rested, Merlin sat by his side and pressed one finger to Arthur’s pulse point. 

“Merlin, I…” 

“Shh. Stop distracting me. I’m counting heartbeats.” 

Arthur’s pulse was racing, he could tell Merlin that for nothing. He opened his mouth to say so, but Merlin shhed him again so he closed it and frowned instead. 

When Merlin concentrated, he tended to purse his lips and let his brows drop, and his eyes took on an intense blue-black colour that made Arthur shiver in a way that had nothing to do with his fever. 

“It’s as I thought. Your heart is racing.” Lifting the now warm cloth from Arthur’s head, Merlin stood up, the mattress easing as his weight lifted off it. 

“Well, I could have told you that.” 

Merlin retreated to the wash basin and rinsed it, grumbling all the way. “Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to keep you alive?” The familiar sounds of Merlin’s complaints soothed Arthur as much as the cloth that he replaced, cool and calming against Arthur’s skin. “If you die because you’re a stubborn old bossyboots who can’t bear to delegate a fight to your knights, who are literally professionals, trained for the job, I swear, Arthur, I will kill you myself.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” growled Arthur.

“_You_ don’t make any sense. You say you want to reward me for my help in defeating the enemy? Well, here’s what I want as my reward. You. Alive and well and bossing me around as usual.” 

“Bossing you around? As if you ever obey my orders.” 

“True.” 

“Impudent upstart bumpkin.” 

“Noble idiot.” But Merlin’s face softened a bit. “That’s better. Now, do you think you could manage to stay alive for a few minutes while I fetch that tincture?”

Over the next few days, Arthur’s condition worsened despite Merlin’s attentive care. His shivering gave way to an uncontrollable shudders and the coughs became more and more painful until he had to have a bowl to retch into. Eventually Arthur’s strength gave way and he lay back on his pillow, unable even to lift his head without help, while all around him the castle’s inhabitants bustled and fussed and murmured about him as if he were already dead. Arthur wanted to yell at them all to go away, but it was as much as he could do to breathe and slip in and out of a laboured sleep. The effort took everything that he had.

“Alas,” said a voice that Arthur recognised as belonging to Gaius. He had at last chased off all the knights and servants and courtiers until only he and Merlin remained. “Arthur is gravely sick, Merlin. I fear we may need to take drastic action.” 

Behind him, the gentle press of Merlin’s hand on his head as he shifted Arthur’s position on his pillow was his only physical connection to the outside world. His chest, tight and constricted, rattled with every breath. Gritting his teeth, he focussed every ounce of his will on making the breaths come. In and out. In and out. 

“Do you mean what I think you mean?” Merlin’s voice sounded odd and far away, as if filtered through cotton, but the steady sense of warmth from his hand on Arthur’s arm was real enough. 

“Do you think you can do it? I fear we may lose him, otherwise.” 

“No, that can’t happen.” Merlin’s voice cracked. “I can’t lose him. Not now.” 

“Then you must do something. As only you can.” 

They were drifting further and further away. Something cool brushed across Arthur’s face. He let the softness drag him into a fitful slumber, the restless sound of wheezing becoming faint and distant against the ever present drum of his racing heart. Was this what death was like? It didn’t feel so bad. He could embrace it. He could turn to the light, and let it take him. It would be so much easier, and maybe then he could rest.

“Quickly, Merlin. Or you will be too late.” 

A voice, somehow beloved, started to chant in an unfamiliar language. With every word, something loosened in Arthur’s chest. The voice breathed strength into Arthur’s belly. It spoke of destiny, of love, reassurance, companionship, and a devotion that would transcend time, if Arthur only let it. As Arthur took in another breath, the voice rejoiced with him as it cajoled, lending him as much energy as Arthur wanted. Arthur drew on it, as if it were a wellspring, boundless and fresh, sustaining him with its vigour and pushing away all the pain. 

The chanting ended. “Come on, Clotpole,” said the voice. “Don’t give up on me now.” 

Arthur clutched at the hand that held his and focused on making his heart beat and his lungs suck in air. All the while, he pulled at the vitality offered by this deep, bottomless supply of strength, seeking a name to put to its origin. Magic? Love? He did not know the difference. It was neither, and both at once. But what did names matter? It was bringing him life, when he needed it. 

Gradually, one inhalation at a time, he pulled away from the beckoning arms of oblivion and back to the world where pain awaited him but with it, hope. And as he drifted off to sleep, he finally found the name that he sought for this fathomless stream of power. 

Merlin. Of course.

His name was Merlin. 

***FIN***

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Not my characters, I’m not getting paid, Merlin and Arthur belong to us all, yadda yadda


End file.
